


His Vampire

by comlodge



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 06:06:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5445974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comlodge/pseuds/comlodge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post NFA probably but no reference to anything in cannon other than paying homage to our very favourite line from Angel S5 - ..."except that one time". No plot, just Angel being a schmoopy ass while reminiscing and Spike being totally irresistible. I've been writing this for so long and have rewritten it a few times. It's written in the first person and that was just amazingly hard to keep proper tenses. Hopefully I have. Not beta'd but hopefully properly proof read. I'll be in my bunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Vampire

 

He leaves the steaming bathroom, one towel wrapped around his waist, another covering his head, his hands rubbing it through his hair. As he steps onto the bedroom carpet, his gaze drifts towards the bed and the vision that snares his towel hooded eyes, brings him to a standstill, mid stride, just inside the doorway. 

His nostrils flare, scenting the air. The aromas he draws deep inside his enhanced olfactory system, set his salivary glands in action. His mouth opens of its own accord, drawing more of the lush, aromatic air across his tongue. His eyes close as the scents tickle across the roof of his mouth, before sliding down his throat. A small, almost breathless, moan slips from him. This is followed by a low deep rumbling and his eyes fly open as he feels his face rippling. 

His gaze returns to the body, laying spread eagled across the bed, white linens draped across the lower half of the pale form, his tongue slips between his teeth to run across his lower lip. He knows his eyes are flecked with gold as his sight sharpens, his periphery vision widening as the rods elongate, the cones receding and reshaping into those of a night predator. 

The light sharpens, the world slips into a greyer place where the whites are almost silvered and the shadows recede. He tastes blood in his mouth and he is almost salivating at the memories it brings. Never mind that it is his blood, his tongue having nicked itself on an emerging fang. Damn the boy! His demon always responds to the call of the boy when he lets himself relax when the little shit is around. 

The exposed torso is lying pale and glistening, in the filtered light that floats through the half open slatted blinds, flowing along like streams, on the dust motes in the air. He snorts at the thought that comes with the visual. 

Perhaps this is where the idea of Twilight's sparkling vampires came from. Had the author had a vampire lover and stood, as he was now, losing herself in the splendour stretched before her as stray beams of light caused the alabaster skin to glow, and the dust motes to sparkle like tiny stars, against it. 

The streak of shame that slams through his body at this acknowledgment of his having read those books, causes his demon to retreat. His fangs draw back into his jaw and his eyes shift, returning the world to the more colourful, but duller outlook of a human. 

Once again, he eyes the figure on the bed through human eyes. For a small man, Spike always seems to take up more than his share of the world. Even asleep, vibrations hum through the air around the hard body, and the shining skin twitches and shivers, as at a lover’s touch. His tongue makes a slow slide across his bottom lip, at the sight.

The feet and one leg lie, exposed, on the snowy, white cotton sheet, drawing his eyes to them, to the toes, long, elegant in their looseness, nails trimmed, neatly smooth, buffed to a dull glow. Saliva gathers in his mouth at the remembered taste of them, the responsiveness, the tingling of electricity on his tongue as he sucks them into his mouth, and the sounds their owner makes as he hollows his cheeks around each one. These memories reverberate through his body and he feels his cock stir in response. 

His eyes travel over the slightly arched feet with their almost painfully, sensitive soles, that, stroked just so, elicit deep moans from the body they are attached to. Licking the folds of skin, tip of tongue tracing each crevice, teeth grazing the ridges, reduces their owner to a quivering, shivering mess, blonde head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open, streaming a long litany of filth, mingled with endearments. His lips twitch up at the thought of some of those words. Spike hardly ever shuts up and seldom in the throes of passion. 

His gaze moves to the slightly bony ankles, always so responsive to the gentle lick of a tongue, sometimes quite physically when taken by surprise, snapping the attached feet out, to kick the licker to the floor. Spike is a lesson in erogenous zones. Who knew that a body, particularly a dead body, had so many spots where electricity pooled, just under the skin, waiting to ignite to an attentive lover, the fine body hairs standing erect and waving as a hand or mouth moved above them? 

Not for the first time, he wonders what the man, William, would have been like as a human. He thinks the boy would most likely have had similar responses, even without the preternatural sensitivity given to vampires. Spike’s heart, after all, is William’s still. More human, even in death, than any vampire had a right to be. Love’s bitch, true enough, and made to love and be loved. To fuck and be fucked. 

His eyes slip up the one exposed calf, watching the hairs move as if they feel the weight of his gaze, settling on the shadowed indentation behind the slightly turned out knee. Another spot that can be stroked, sucked, nibbled on, bitten, to reduce the body attached to a pitching, puddle of male strength and lust. 

His chest tightens at thoughts, memories, of Spike’s body thrashing beneath him as he tended to that spot, before licking and kissing his way up strong thighs, blending into smooth rounded globes that hid a dark eyed treasure, waiting to be found and plundered. 

His eyes close as he feels his cock straining beneath the towel, to hunt down and take what is hidden under the bed clothes. His mouth opens a little, tongue sliding out again, to rest on his lower lip and taste the air. He feels a groan trying to make its way up through his diaphragm and escape into the room. 

Sucking in a shaking, needy breath, he opens his eyes to continue the visual feast spread before him. Sliding up, over the rumpled sheeting that hides the sweetest prize, too thick to do other than visualize the long length, hidden under the folds of material, lucky enough to be caressing the centre of Spike’s sex. 

He stares at the spot directly over the hidden organ, feels his taste buds spark in anticipation, of savouring the pre-cum that would be glistening on the slightly gaping, slitted opening, in the purple head. He imagines the fluid building up, pooling at the opening, before oozing over the crown, dripping down the length of hard, silky flesh, to nestle in the dark curls at the root. 

He pictures his hand wrapping around the hardened cock, feeling the foreskin moving in his palm, slippery and welcoming. He feels his hand sliding up the length, moving the wet sheath of skin up, over the crown towards the leaking head, then down again to leave it shiningly exposed. Spike’s body would bow off the bed, head thrown back into the pillows, neck tendons stretched, mouth open, moaning and cursing, screaming his lust and need to the air. To him. 

He can feel his thumb go to the leaking opening, rolling across it, teasing it open, and spreading the fluids around the crown as his palm closes around the shaft to begin another descent, taking the juices with it, down the silken length. His other hand, eager to join the fun, would move to cup the pendulous scrotum, soft, wiry curls tickling the skin of its palm as it kneaded the full sack, feeling the hard, yet soft centres growing in size. 

He sees himself bow his head in a parody of worship, as he had in a distant childhood, worshiping another god as his tongue flicks out to scoop up a drop of the essence that is Spike, taking it into him, and feeling it slide down his throat. The body under him gasps a strangled sound and lifts further off the bed. Hands rise from the bedclothes to encircle his head, clasping at his hair, tangling in it. 

This is the only altar he wants or needs to worship at. This annoying son of England, blood kin to a son of Eire. This demon of the night wrapped in the skin of an angel of light. This vampire who responds and loves. Like a man. 

A groan works its way from deep inside him, slides long and low from his mouth and he realises he has closed his eyes to watch memory, fantasy and lust roll across his vision. His cock is fully awake, hard, leaking and needy against his belly. 

He pushes his lids open, lets memory slip back into its lockbox, and brings his eyes into focus, to continue their journey over the body in the bed. His childe in all but initial act. The ‘other man’ in his little family of slaughtering predators. The idiot of a fledge, who forgot he didn’t need to breathe. The boy who always hurt, so prettily. His once again, impetuous, impatient, artless, annoying sidekick. His… lover. 

He’s lost to history once more, as images of another place, another time, flood his mind. He knows, on some level, that he is still standing, towel wrapped body dripping in the door to his bedroom but, standing in a different doorway, his eyes now look on a different bed mate. 

William lies, face down, between the girls, one small and fair, but certainly not of the light, one dark and slight, her light trapped in endless insanity. As her mind is trapped so her body appears, trapped under the male body half draped across it, head on her shoulder, soft brown hair loose across one small white breast, legs twined around hers. 

The boy’s smooth, pale globes are bright in the lamp lit, shuttered light of day. Bites, scratches, blood and bruises litter the pale flesh transforming it into a canvas used by some mad, abstract artist, splashing paint in a haphazard attempt at a masterpiece. 

Darla, lays behind the boy, naked, except for the cap that keeps her curls in place during sleep or, whatever else that may occur in the family bed. Body stretched full length against the boy’s, an arm across his waist as though to keep him in the bed. 

He knows what activities the three have been indulging in, in his absence. He knew when his foot hit the first step towards the second floor. The air is redolent with emotions, lust, enjoyment, effort, pain, blood, other bodily fluids and the powerful scents of sex. 

The girls have been ‘educating’ the fledgling. The smell of pain and blood is all the boy’s, just as the scents of vindictive, savage pleasure belong to Darla. The strange scent of Dru’s otherness and childlike delight threads through the other two, combining the sensations into an intoxicating, tantalising feast for his senses. 

His demon rises and he feels his face begin the change. Strong, overpowering, feelings begin to take control of him and he struggles to contain them. Memories of himself as a young fledge, flick through his mind, when Darla first brought him before her sire, the grandiosely named, Master. 

As his gaze roams over the boy, tracing every bruise, every red line, every bite, lingering on the fang marks, he recognises the bitter taste of jealousy. A word whispers through his mind and he wants to reject it. 

He’s a vampire, a predator, a scourge. He takes, he has and he moves on. The boy, though, the boy… The word is insistent. Mine! 

He disrobes, for once letting his clothes fall where they may, anticipation throbbing through his sluggish veins. He lets the change happen, a growl escaping his throat, as he advances, naked and very much erect, towards the bed and his family. 

Mine! 

The echoing word shudders through his brain as his inner thoughts return to the now and the covered form on the bed before him. His bed. 

He’s licking his lips as his eyes glide over the belly button, his tongue replaying its many travels through the topography of that small but significant indentation in Spike’s belly. Why do Vampire’s even retain what is purely a human landmark? A reminder of what they no longer are part of? 

Vampires are not attached to their sires, as a babe to its mother. Except… sometimes, surprisingly, they are. Perhaps there is some symbolism at work here, something the magic of demon rebirth recognises, and therefore does not see an imperfection to be healed at the turning, as other scars of former existence, heal. 

He moves across the room and stands near the bed, reaching out a hand toward the silvered skin displayed before him. His hand hovers a breath above the flesh as he ghosts over the narrow waist, wide chest, puckered nipples and up across the broad shoulders. 

He imagines he feels the thrum of power coursing through the body under his hand; feels the magic that keeps the reanimated body functioning at a new level it never had when its heart pumped blood through it. 

He imagines leaning over the beautiful, slumbering face and watching as the thick black lashes lift, lazily, slowly, from the chiselled cheeks, revealing blue summer skies with a hint of gold.

He imagines the surprisingly red, lush lips parting in a smile, revealing perfect white teeth with a hint of sharpness, of danger. 

“Mine.” The word tumbles from his mouth in a whisper of wonder and worship and he feels a weight in his chest shift, begin to unfurl, like something waking up. 

Blue eyes, glistening through thick black lashes, open to look into his, and cherry lips part in a smile that reveals white teeth, the tip of a wet, pink tongue separating them. 

Then, whispered, on a stream of light, 

“Yours, Angel… Sire… Always.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
